


Writing Him To Afterlife

by redreaper86



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: 2022 Riddlebird, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blond Oswald Cobblepot, Colin Farrell Penguin, Fluff and Humor, Human Edward Nygma, Human/Vampire Relationship, Inspired by Ruby Sparks (2012), M/M, Os is a nice vampire, Paul Dano Riddler, Twilight Bashing, Vampire Oswald Cobblepot, Writers, ed writes oswald to life, he dosen't bite, unless you ask him to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28146345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/pseuds/redreaper86
Summary: Edward is a writer who writes vampire novels he hates. But they're what his editor demands of him. But when Oswald, the vampire antihero main character of Ed's books pays him a visit, Ed has to decide whether he's going to keep writing contrived drivel that drains his soul, or follow his heart and write what (and who) he loves.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Writing Him To Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foggys_cupcake_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggys_cupcake_girl/gifts).



> I tried to keep out all the ickiest parts of being a vampire (the non-con stuff such as drinking blood from a person and hypnotizing them). So Os is basically a superpowered being who needs to sip on an I.V. blood- bag every now and then. Hope you like it, foggys_cupcake_girl!

“You really are a depraved wee bastard, aren’t you?”

Edward nearly jumped out of his chair where he had been staring for hours at the contrived drivel on his computer screen which was supposed to pass for a page in the middle of his newest novel.

The speaker leaned against the door frame of his kitchen, casually reading the dog-eared notebook that Ed used to scribble down ideas and back stories for his moderately popular horror erotica series. But the fact that the man was in his kitchen without invitation was the least freaky thing about him. 

The most freaky about him was the fact that Ed knew him, knew everything about him -- even more than he knew about himself. 

Because the man was the main character of his book series, _Blood and Ice_. Oswald Cobblepot, debauched nobleman, notorious rake, and worst of all: bloodthirsty vampire.

“I mean…” Oswald -- (a product of Ed’s overtired imagination, surely) -- said, raising a thick black eyebrow, “…this is some blood-curdling stuff here, mate. Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?”

Edward was too in shock to even be offended. “I’m an erotic horror writer,” he said, with a self-conscious shrug. “But it’s amazing how often people conflate the two.”

Oswald laughed softly and, flipping the notebook closed, he swaggered up to Ed who stayed rooted to his chair, his fascination with the other man overtaking his fear.

Oswald looked just like Edward had always intended him to look -- not like how Ed’s editor was making him write him, basically a pale reflection of another writer’s fictional sparkly vampire (of whom Ed was sure his editor was writing crappy fanfiction for). 

Oswald’s perfectly dyed platinum blond hair contrasted wonderfully with his coal-black eyebrows and warm brown eyes, accentuated with shimmery aubergine eye shadow. He had strong sensual features, a prominent nose and sculpted lips that seemed forever quirked up with amusement, as well as a massive scar cutting through his right cheek, under his nose and through his upper lip. But instead of spoiling his looks, the scar only seemed to intensify his beauty.

The vampire’s powerful, well-fleshed body was splendidly arrayed in rich Regency-era clothes, a silk purple frock-coat, with lavender lace frothing from the cuffs, a green waistcoat, dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots made of soft black leather. In his hand, he gripped a heavy-looking umbrella, with an intricately carved handle to look like the head of a bird of prey. 

Oswald tilted his head at him. “You could take a picture, it would last longer.”

Edward flinched, realizing he was staring. “Sorry,” he mumbled, tearing his gaze away with an effort. “It’s just that -- you don’t look like I wrote you.”

“You mean like that?” Oswald gestured disdainfully with his umbrella at the front cover of _Cold Blood_ , the first book in the would-be nine book series, if Ed finished the one he was working on now. The cover portrayed a muscle-bound hunk, in a tight grey t-shirt, biting into the neck of a swooning blonde. “Why did you stop writing me the way I am?”

Edward winced. “My editor…” he murmured. When he’d first come up with the character he’d designed him to stand out from the others in the erotic horror genre. But his editor had told him that a character like that would never be a big hit. The heavier physique (“readers want ‘ _ripped_ ’ not ‘ _rolls_ ’”), the eighteenth century clothes (“readers want modern vampires”), the dyed blond hair (“readers want manly men”) -- all of what made Oswald’s character so special, Ed’s editor made him change about him.

“…sounds like a complete asshole,” Oswald finished for him. “Seriously, what do they know about what readers want? What readers want is writing where the author’s enthusiasm flows off the page, not…” Oswald looked over Ed’s shoulder to the writing on the computer screen, “…whatever _this_ is. It reads like you were having your teeth drilled as you were writing it.”

Edward closed his laptop without saving his document and looked up at Oswald. “Did you just read my mind?”

“Sorry,” the vampire had the good grace to look abashed. “It was an accident. I usually can block out humans’ thoughts.”

“It’s okay,” Ed said, rubbing his stinging eyes, thinking about all the unfinished three quarters of the book he had yet to write. 

“You’re exhausted, kiddo,” Oswald observed, tilting Ed’s face up, his well-manicured but sharp fingernails teasing the mortal’s skin a little. “Why don’t you come home with me to my castle and get some rest?”

_Because you’re a vampire. Because you’re a figment of my imagination_. 

“You have a castle?” Edward asked instead, perking up with childlike interest. 

“Yes, the Iceberg Castle. That you wrote for me,” Oswald prompted, and Edward remembered the little piece of back-story his editor had made him scrap long ago (“castles for vampires are so cliché”).

“This editor of yours sounds like a right bellend,” Oswald snapped, then looked pained. “Sorry. I read your mind again.”

Edward snickered softly and shook his head. “Not your fault. I did write you that way.”

“Still,” Oswald said, ever the gentleman. “It was in poor form. I apologize. Now about staying at my castle…?”

Edward looked around at his tiny, shabby apartment. He was barely making enough money to pay his rent and buy essential items as it was. And he was pretty sure he was sharing his home with what was either a small rat or a large cockroach. Either way, it scuttled about in the walls at night in a most disconcerting manner. 

“It would beat this dump,” Ed said at last. He gasped as Oswald effortlessly scooped him up in his arms, bridal style. 

“Don’t worry, Edward,” Oswald said with a wicked grin. “I don’t bite.”

Ed gulped. Well, no going back now.

There was a sudden rush of air as the two of them zoomed out of the building.

~

Edward thought he remembered gorgeous crystal walls throwing rainbows about the place like so much confetti, real penguins pattering around, honking and flapping their flipper-wings. There was a spiral slide made of ice where the penguins slid down to splash into their pool. He thought he remembered being laid down gently on soft silk black sheets, while Oswald gently sung him to sleep.

But when he began to stir, he began to wonder if any of the events of last night had been real. He was probably in his own bed with the lumpy mattress and his roommate, the small rat/large cockroach crawling over his face…

He shuddered himself awake, sitting up in bed --

Not his own bed, but the opulent one that Oswald had laid him in last night.

And there was Oswald himself, leaning against the door frame again, sipping at an I.V. blood-bag. “I wasn’t watching you sleep, I promise,” he said quickly. “I just was going to ask you if you wanted waffles for breakfast.”

Edward couldn’t help but a smile. It was amusing and cute how much Oswald was refuting the creepy vampire tropes that Ed had always written him doing.

“Blueberry?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course,” Oswald smiled. “And after you’re done eating, I’ve set you up a writing desk in the library. You need to get back to writing what you love.”

Ed glanced at Oswald, the vampire, Ed’s fictional character (or was he?), taking him in. He had taken off the heavy frock coat, and some of his platinum blond hair was falling artfully over one eye. He had flaws and even through he was a vampire, he was still real -- there with Edward.

“You’re really real,” Ed breathed.

“I am as real as you are, love,” Oswald assented. “Now let’s go eat those waffles before they get cold.”

“You can eat _food_?” Ed asked, cringing even as he spoke at how idiotic the question sounded.

“You don’t think all I eat is this, do you?” Oswald held up the nearly empty plastic I.V. blood-bag. “I only drink this stuff because I have to. Just because you wrote me a certain way, doesn’t make it true.”

“I’m glad you’re the way you are,” Edward said shyly. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.” 

Oswald blushed and took Ed’s hand. Ed squeezed it and bit his lip to tamp down the rising joy in his heart. He couldn’t believe his character he’d invented, wrote about, laughed and cried over was standing in front of him now, holding his hand and offering him breakfast and a place to live and write.

Who knew Ed’s true love had been literally at his fingertips all along, just waiting for him to write him to life? Or afterlife, as it were?

“I am so firing my editor,” Edward said. “I’ll never let anyone make me write lies again. From now on, I’m writing what I love.” 

“And what’s that, Edward?” 

“He’s more like a ‘who,’” Edward said, smiling down at Oswald.


End file.
